


The Fountain

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Slavery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow, Jim thought the brothel would be different—big and beautiful. Not like this, with just one broken Vulcan...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sin

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A fill for the [Star Trek ID Kink Meme](http://strek-id-kink.livejournal.com/2836.html?thread=1193236#t1193236). While there's nothing on-camera and this focuses on the rescue/Vulcanized recovery, this deals heavily with past underage sexual/physical/mental abuse. **Please proceed with caution.**
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It used to be beautiful. The tour books all say that, and the digital postcards have pictures of places that don’t exist anymore. Once, this field was lush with grass and bright-coloured flowers, home to birds and bristling with tourists.

Now it’s a barren wasteland, empty and depressing. There’s nothing but a long highway with a few shops on either side. It feels like you can see right around the planet, right to the edge. Everything’s yellow and orange, and the dust clings to Jim’s shirt no matter what he does. His jacket’s whipping back behind him. Bones is driving, and he keeps complaining about it—how hard it is to see in the windstorms. Some place to spend a birthday. 

“You passed the hotel,” Jim comments, having to shout over the wind. There’s no top on this car—it’s old and it still has wheels. That’s worse; they kick the road up. Jim has to squint his eyes against the flying particles. Bones doesn’t seem to hear him, so Jim leans forward to the front seat, practically shouting in Bones’ ear, “You missed—”

“I’m not lost!” Bones shouts back, which means he’s lost. He drives too fast, but Jim’s worse. “It’s right around here...”

“It’s back there, I saw it!”

“Not the hotel, you idiot—your birthday present!”

Oh. Jim’s tempted to just climb into the front seat. He wants to hear this properly, and right now everything’s a struggle. But Bones would probably kill him. Bones hates it when he drives and hates it when he fools around. Which is often. When Jim doesn’t ask, Bones shouts over his shoulder, “You’re getting laid!”

“Fuck yeah!” Jim’s face splits into a grin immediately. “Thought you said you weren’t into men?”

“Not me, dumbass!”

Jim laughs, because he knew as much, and he settles back into his seat, not bothering with the seatbelt. Not a barren wasteland, then. His mind immediately sets into happy thoughts—what this brothel will look like, big and grand and alien. He always likes his lays a little exotic. Tarsus IV is mostly a Terran populous, but it’s got to have some stranger choices, doesn’t it? He’ll have fun either way. Jim’s not that picky, and he always likes trying something new. An alien brothel on a planet he’s never been to before is definitely new. (He loves an adventure, like going on a road trip on a strange planet with just one grumpy friend and one suitcase.)

Jim sticks his hand out the side to feel the dust fly through his fingers, looking forward to a hot vacation.

* * *

Except that it isn’t anything like that. 

The dust storm’s settled, the sun’s almost set, and they can see the hotel on the horizon from outside. Not much else. The sky is somewhere between red and dark. Jim figures they should’ve bought a car with a roof—it’s supposed to be cold at night. 

Around back, Bones is going to wait in the car for him. Jim tries to drag Bones in, but then he gets a rant about how full of diseases it’ll be, and it’s just for Jim because Jim’s dirty anyway. Jim chuckles and playfully shoves his friend in the arm, trying not to look as nervous as he feels. Bones has to stay around for the ride back, and even he admits the place isn’t what he thought it would be. Not what the advertising said.

It isn’t a big brothel at all. Jim knows he shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but the cover’s a decrepit little two-story house. It looks like an old Earth one, like a lot of the ‘buildings’ around here do. Like they’re stuck out of time, or someone gave up halfway through. Jim walks around the front and climbs the steps: old wooden things. He wills himself straight he knocks—the doors are the old fashioned kind with handles. All brown and rusty. The man that answers is just as grubby-looking as his house, with odd cloths in greens and blacks and a beer gut. His hair’s thinning and his eyes are different colours. He grunts, “McCoy, right? We got the deposit. He’s upstairs.”

Jim says, “Uh, thanks.” And he tries not to be rude, so he doesn’t mention how dodgy the house looks.

The man steps aside, and he jabs his thumb at a rickety staircase. The house has a retro motif, and it smells sort of stale. It’s like something out of the old western movies Jim’s seen, with cowboys and barely any electricity. The paint on the walls is chipping, and a few painted, ugly plates are mounted here and there. The man tells him, “You can do whatever you want with him. You’ve got until the sun rises.”

Jim says, “Okay.”

The man nods and disappears through another door, like he does this all the time and he’s already bored. Jim’s a little surprised that, apparently, he doesn’t get choices. Somehow he thought he’d get choices. Maybe a whole line up. But it’s just one man. It better be a hot man. Jim’s not exactly sexually conservative, but he’s still not entirely not-shallow. He makes a mental note to get on Bones’ back about this. 

The stairs creak when he climbs them, and Jim’s not exactly sure if the feeling in his stomach is nerves or anticipation. He’s never actually paid for sex before (technically he still hasn’t; Bones did) but the idea’s sort of exciting. It means he’ll be in control of the decisions, with their limits of course, and it’ll be an experience. The hallway at the top is dark, done up like the rest of the house. A door at the end is open—Jim figures that’s the one. He sucks in a breath and he walks.

He closes the door behind himself on instinct. The second he turns around, he freezes. Completely stuck in place. 

There’s a boy, not a man (a teenager who can’t be any older than Jim, legal but not by too many years), sitting at the foot of the bed. Jim doesn’t bother to take in the rest of the room. It’s a dull, grey background _nothing_ in the light of this boy, staring at Jim with open, dark eyes. His skin’s a pale alabaster, less pinkish than Jim’s, with a blue sort of tint to his eyelid. He isn’t wearing a stitch of clothing, other than a heavy black collar like what a dog would wear and an attached leash trailing down his stomach. 

He’s got a trickle of dried, green blood on the side of his lip. He’s black and blue in many areas, but his posture is perfect anyway. His eyebrows are sharp, his black hair is in a bowl cut, and his ears a pointy. 

A Vulcan.

A naked, bruised Vulcan, kneeling before Jim to be used. The ceiling light doesn’t do him justice. The window’s open, but it’s dark outside. He seems to be waiting for Jim to act or speak. Jim’s got his heart in his mouth and doesn’t know what to do. 

He really didn’t think it’d be like this. 

There’s a horrible knot in his stomach. This isn’t how he thought it would be at all—this place is grimy and dirty and there’s a table in the corner with strange instruments on it, and bruises on the boy’s skin to match. This boy doesn’t look like eager at all, an alien from a more open culture; he looks used and worn down and resigned. He’s a _Vulcan_ for fuck’s sakes. Vulcans don’t... do this. Jim’s never even heard of them having sex at all, and when he lets his eyes roam down to the boy’s cock, nestled between the hands on his knees, it isn’t even remotely hard. It’s long and pale and limp, and it doesn’t even twitch with Jim looking at it. Like Jim’s would. Jim has to wrench his eyes away, because his traitorous body _does_ get hard. The boy’s stunning. But fuck... this is sick.

Jim swallows and walks quickly over to the bed, feeling stiff and self-conscious. When he sits down, it’s lumpy and uncomfortable. The boy turns on the floor, still waiting. Jim’s mouth is open, but he doesn’t know what to say. 

He didn’t want it like this. He can’t justify this. The boy’s beautiful, but...

The boy tries to lean forward, going for Jim’s tented crotch, but Jim cringes and shoves his forehead away. The boy has no reaction. His eyes flicker up to Jim, intense. He doesn’t move or say anything.

Jim’s still shell shocked. He needs to do something. He gulps and asks, “What’s your name?”

In a deep, lulling voice that Jim finds entirely too sensual, the boy says, “Whatever you want it to be.” But he has no intonations: just flat words. 

Jim frowns. He likes to be a leader, but he doesn’t play like that. “What’s your birth name?”

The boy hesitates before saying, “Spock.” 

“Jim.”

The boy—Spock—doesn’t even blink. He probably thinks it doesn’t matter. It makes Jim sick to think of how many times Spock’s done this. Hopefully Jim’s one of the first. He still feels inclined to check, on the vague, hopeful, impossible chance that Jim’s gotten this wrong. “You don’t... you don’t want to be here, do you?”

Spock lifts an eyebrow. Jim gets the distinct impression that no one’s ever asked him that before, or if they did, only one answer was acceptable. He opens his mouth, looking down, but then he quickly closes it. He has such a handsome body and an even handsomer face. It might be easier if he didn’t.

Jim pats the bed next to him. That was all the confirmation he needed. Spock looks hesitant, but he does get to his feet—he’s as tall as Jim—and he sits down beside Jim, back still straight and hands still in his lap. He doesn’t bother trying to cover himself up. The leash is hanging straight down Spock’s torso, between his pink nipples and down the almost concave curve of his belly. He hasn’t been fed enough. A part of Jim wants to reach out and grab the leash and drag Spock away...

Can he do that? Spock, slowly and carefully, leans into Jim and shifts one hand to Jim’s leg, sliding it up his inner thigh. Jim’s already slightly hard, but it gets him harder. Spock has long, delicate fingers, that look like they’d know what they’re doing. They close over his crotch and squeeze lightly, and Jim moans loudly. And he hates himself for it. It takes willpower to push Spock’s hand aside. More rigid than before, Spock sits back on his ankles. 

He looks slightly annoyed.

He waits a few minutes, and then he says very evenly, “Get it over with.”

Jim winces instantly. Sex has never been a punishment with him, _never_ something to _inflict_ on others. He mumbles, “You’re hurt. Was it the people who own this place? Do they beat you?”

“Only if I do not please the guests.” Spock’s eyes flicker down again, pointedly sizing up the growing bulge in Jim’s pants. Judging from the bruises all over Spock’s body, he fails to please often. It makes Jim even sicker to think about what things people request that are too much for him, that he won’t take. He seems so subservient and cavalier about it all. It’s...

It’s disgusting. And Jim was here to use him. Jim’s about to blurt that he didn’t want to, he did mean to, he’d never _rape_ someone, ever. But then Spock’s leaning in again, fast as lightning, and his lips are pressing into Jim’s, out of the blue. Jim grunts without the time to pull away. 

Spock’s lips are soft. They’re gentle, at first, the sort of kiss that’s a duty, but when Jim doesn’t respond, Spock presses harder, like he’s trying to force Jim to enjoy it. Jim enjoys it too much. He wants this to be under different circumstances, because the connection he feels when Spock tilts his head is overwhelming, like some electric spark he’s never experienced before. Spock’s tongue presses at Jim’s lips, and Jim’s stupid body parts them for him. Spock’s tongue is probing and careful, and it methodically traces Jim’s mouth while Jim waits to wake up, and then he’s pressing back, and his hand’s moving onto Spock’s knee, up to Spock’s thigh and he feels a bruise—

The moment’s instantly killed. Jim pulls away, shaking and nauseous. When Jim looks really hard, he thinks Spock might look confused or hurt. Mostly he’s a blank slate. Jim doesn’t know many Vulcans—just stereotype and public transmissions. He doesn’t know if Spock’s neutrality is a defense mechanism or just the way Vulcans are. 

He’s a little breathless from the kiss, and he can still feel the tingle of Spock against him. He says without thinking, “We have to get out of here.”

Both of Spock’s eyebrows rise, eyes going a little wide around the edges. He says, “It does not work that way.”

“I don’t care; those bastards can’t make you do this. I don’t know what they’ve got on you, but—”

“They are my foster family.”

“What?” Jim’s mouth falls open, horrified. 

Spock continues, “My birth parents are deceased. The couple downstairs has finished raising me, and how they choose to have me earn my keep is their prerogative.”

“Bullshit!” It occurs to Jim late that there might be cameras; surely in any other brothels there would be. Safety for the workers. But this place is small and old and low budget, so maybe it doesn’t. Jim looks around the room quickly just to check, but it’s as plain and empty as it was before. There’s a door in the side that probably leads to a bathroom, but there aren’t any personal affects of a young man. It amazes him that Spock isn’t having the same emotional reaction he is—the urge to throw up and the lingering rage. “That makes it even worse. They can’t do this...”

“You must be from Earth.” Spock comments. “You are not on Earth now. Tarsus IV allows parents to do as they wish. Prostitution is legal.”

Jim scoffs. “I didn’t say anything about legal. And this isn’t normal sex work—this is _forced_. It’s not _right._ ” When Spock doesn’t react, Jim climbs off the bed, and he’s halfway towards the door when he realizes they’ll probably catch him if he goes out that way. So instead he walks to the window, while Spock stays on the bed, watching him. It’s a straight drop down, but the side’s made of wooden slats that Jim’s fairly certain he could climb. Bones is asleep in the car a little ways away, and Jim doesn’t call him for fear of causing a commotion. There isn’t much starlight; they could probably get away. 

Jim looks back at Spock, but Spock doesn’t budge. “C’mon. You don’t want to stay here, do you?”

“I do not have a choice,” Spock says simply. “I appreciate your compassion, but you are not being logical.”

“Fuck logical.” Jim takes a step forward, reaching out to grab Spock’s leash. He gives it a little tug, fully prepared to do what’s necessary. “C’mon. I’ve got a friend with a car down there. We’ll get out of here and on a ship back to Earth before the authorities get us.”

Spock still doesn’t move, even when the leash pulls the collar tight around the back of his neck. His eyes harden, and he says very sternly, “I have no desire to be your personal slave.”

Jim drops the leash as if burned. His cheeks boil, and he stutters, “That’s not.... Look, I’m trying to set you free here. I mean, I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but it has to be better than this!”

“I have nowhere to go.”

“You can stay with me. My friend and I are going to try enrolling in Starfleet next year; you can come with us. Vulcans are supposed to be really smart, right? Or if you don’t want that... well, whatever. We’ll think of something.” Somehow it’s become ‘we.’

Spock still looks skeptical. 

But he finally stands up. Jim takes off his jacket, feeling stupid for not doing that earlier, and he helps Spock put it on. He does up the zipper in the front. It does nothing for Spock’s legs, but it’s something, and Jim will give him more clothes at the hotel. 

Spock’s expression is unreadable as Jim helps him out the window, out and into the night.


	2. Run

Bones pretty much freaks out, but that’s typical Bones. They have a huge, whispered fight in the front seat while Spock sits in the back, and finally Jim just says, “Will you look at him?”

So Bones grumbles and indulges Jim like he always does in the end. He climbs awkwardly into the back seat, and when Spock flinches away, Bones grunts, “Relax, I’m a doctor.” Spock doesn’t look capable of relaxing.

There is no light to see by, but even still, Bones can tell, “He’s in bad shape.”

“I told you. Now, can we get out of here before they catch us?”

Bones says, “Yeah,” and gets back in the front. That’s that. Bones can’t turn away someone who’s hurt, and he should know Jim won’t let him. Jim’s not sure where he should sit. His instinct says close to Spock, but he also knows he should probably give Spock space. But maybe Spock has questions. In the end, he climbs over, while Bones grumbles, “I can’t believe we’re gonna kidnap a Vulcan. Every time I hang out with you it’s nothing but trouble.”

Jim doesn’t say anything, because that’s pretty much true.

* * *

Their hotel room’s small and cheap, with two beds and a bathroom and a half-working computer. Jim finds a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt for Spock to wear, turning his back while Spock changes, but Bones watches with a medical eye and points out all the things wrong he’ll have to fix later. Jim hates every word. He wishes there were time for Spock to shower, but there probably isn’t.

They get everything they have back into their suitcases, though it isn’t much. Jim says belatedly, “Shit. I didn’t let you grab anything...”

And Spock says, “I have nothing.”

Jim’s stomach clenches again. He manages to get the leash off, but the collar doesn’t have a clasp. They’ll have to cut it off when they get somewhere with proper equipment. Plastic scissors wouldn’t cut it.

Spock doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t seem to mind anything. He’s tall enough to fill out Jim’s clothes, but they’re a little loose width-wise. He looks just as good clothed as he did naked, except now they can’t see all his wounds. His lip’s still got blood on it, but when Jim carefully tries to wipe that off in the bathroom, it just opens and starts bleeding fresh. Bones says he can fix it as soon as they get somewhere with a basic medkit. Spock lets Jim wipe him off, but he looks wary the whole time, like they’re both going to push him down and take him.

Jim says more than once, “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

* * *

Two days. That’s how long it’ll take them to get to the shipyard. They’re not sure how they’re going to get on when they’re essentially fugitives, but Jim never has a plan for anything, and they’ll deal with that when they get there.

For now, they’re just driving. It’s mostly Bones, while Jim sits in the back, and they stop off at a backend convenience store on the edge of the road to get food. The owner behind the counter has his head lost in a console to the side and doesn’t even look up at them. Jim asks Spock what he wants, but he doesn’t say anything.

Jim gets him a packaged salad. Vulcans like salad, right? He gets a couple bags of chips for himself and Bones, and when he gets back to the car, Bones yells at him, so he goes back to get samosas and something else that looks alien but edible and more “nutritious”. They budgeted before this trip, but now they’ve got a third person, and their money was tight anyway. Saving the extra nights at a hotel helps. Bones sets off the second they’re in the backseat again, and Jim shoves the salad over, demanding, “Eat. I don’t want you to die on my watch.”

Spock says over the wind and the dust, “I did not mean to be a burden.”

Jim answers, “Then don’t die on me. Just eat it.”

Spock doesn’t say anything more, but there’s gratitude in his eyes.

* * *

It gets hotter and hotter as the day goes on, and Bones finally agrees to switch because his arms are cramping up. He sits in the passenger seat and takes his shirt off, reclining back with sunglasses on. Jim basks in the heat but leaves his shirt on, mostly because he knows Spock will. He drives as fast as he can, even though Bones yells at him, because there’s no one else for as far as he can see and they need to get off this planet.

It’s lost all its foreign charm. Bones is charming in the sun, but Jim somehow doesn’t find his friend as attractive as he used to. Maybe his mind’s just somewhere else.

An hour into his driving shift, he asks Bones to feed him chips. Bones snorts and says, “Fuck off.” But Jim hears a chip bag opening. His eyes are on the road. They have to put the wiper on every once in awhile to keep the windshield from getting too clouded with dust.

A chip appears over Jim’s shoulder. It’s blue, but he’s not picky with flavours. He spares a glance to the fingers holding it. Jim says, “Thanks.” And he bites it out of Spock’s hand.

His tongue brushes Spock’s fingers by accident, but Spock still gives him another chip after. This goes on for entirely too long. He’s willing to go through the whole bag like this. Spock doesn’t stop, and Jim doesn’t want to tell him to, even if it makes Jim uncomfortable. Only because he thinks it might make Spock uncomfortable. Is this wrong? Is this using him? It’s iffy, and aside from that, it’s nice.

So Jim doesn’t stop until Bones demands they switch again, because Jim swerves unsteadily every time he takes a chip.

* * *

They must be ridiculously far from the house by now. It’s almost dark again. They still haven’t passed anything even remotely resembling a town, and most places don’t have cars, let alone hovercars. Jim’s getting hungry again, and he’s all out of food. When a little diner appears on the horizon, silhouetted by the falling sun, Jim leans forward to whine, “Pull over, we’re hungry.”

Bones asks, “We?”

“Me and Spock.” Jim looks to Spock for support, but Spock’s looking out the side of the car. He glances at Jim when his name’s called, but he just stares the way he often does. It makes Jim’s skin prickle to be watched like that, but for whatever reason, it’s not unpleasant. He feels like Spock’s constantly assessing him.

He knows this is a lackluster, messy, illogical plan, and he hasn’t been that helpful. He can’t cure Spock, he can’t give Spock any solid reassurances, he can’t be a counselor, and he doesn’t even know what to say.

Somehow, he feels like the assessments always come out good, anyway.

Bones pulls up beside the diner, haphazard in the dirt, because there is no pavement or clear parking lot. There’s only one other car around—an old Chevrolet. They climb out of the backseat, and Jim muses, “Maybe we should disguise him.”

“Just him?”

“They don’t know they’re looking for two others, just one, and they won’t know what we look like.”

Bones shrugs and pops the trunk. Their luggage is in the back, and Jim fishes through for a toque—the only hat he has with him. It’s plain black and small, but Jim’s able to pull it over Spock’s ears, and that’s what matters. He fiddles around a bit to make it look right, smoothing out Spock’s hair and making it even. Spock lets him. It feels like they’ve formed a kind of trust somehow, even though they haven’t spoken much and they’ve just met. The electricity’s still there when they touch, an inexplicable connection that must be innately Vulcan and Spock doesn’t explain. After, Jim thumbs the side of Spock’s lip, realizing that’s too intimate a touch too late.

“Think they’ll notice that?”

Bones shrugs. “What can we do about it?”

Jim knows that, but still. “Do other species bleed green?”

Bones pushes Spock’s face lightly to the side and says, “Just keep that side to the wall.”

Spock nods, and he opens his mouth again. Jim waits, but nothing happens. Bones rolls his eyes and takes the lead, and they follow him in. There’re little circular windows all over the side, the rest brick and wood.

Inside, it’s desolate. Beige floor tiles, beige walls, a beige ceiling and wooden booths lining the sides. There’s a granite counter in the middle with barstools, and Bones ushers them to get a table while he orders.

Jim picks a seat in the back. There’re only three other people in the restaurant: one on the far side, a patron at a table; one behind the bar, a chef, perhaps; and one cleaning a table near the front, a Grazerite waiter. There’s a tiny monitor over the bar with some talk show on it. It’s background noise. The tables are empty, and the booths are small.

Jim’s feet are touching Spock’s under the table, and their knees brush every time Jim tries to change that. For a moment, it’s just the two of them, alone in this booth, and Jim looks at Spock, really _looks at him_ , without meaning to. His dark eyes, his strong jaw, the straight cut of his frayed bangs. He looks at Jim back.

Then he asks quietly, “Why Starfleet?”

Jim blinks. He’s not sure he could explain that short and simple, right here out of the blue. He ends up shrugging, leaning forward over the table, arms crossed over the surface. “I want to see the galaxy. I figure that’s the best way.”

Spock nods, like it’s an acceptable answer.

Jim asks, “What do you want to do?”

“I have not decided. It never occurred to me that I might have options.”

Jim frowns, then grins. “Well, you do now. I meant what I said—you can stay with us until you figure it out. We’re going to get an apartment in the city by the Academy. Even if you don’t want to be Starfleet, you could still go there.”

It looks like Spock’s considering it, but he’s quiet again. Bones shows up a minute later, barking, “Pancakes.”

“Pancakes?”

“Only edible thing they’ve got, says the guy over there.” Bones jabs his finger at the patron in the corner. “So I got us three sets. We’ll scarf it down, we’ll pay, and we’ll take off as soon as we can.”

“It might be wiser to continue driving and eat on the road,” Spock interjects. It’s the first time he’s contributed to ‘the plan,’ so both Bones and Jim look over at him. Bones sidles into the booth on Spock’s side.

“You’re not driving,” Bones grunts, “So you don’t get a say. We need a break.”

Jim asks, “Can you drive?”

Spock says, “I am unaware of whether or not I am capable of doing so. However, I have not been trained and it would be illegal for me to try.”

Bones snorts. “Wouldn’t want to do anything illegal now.”

The waiter brings them their plates surprisingly quickly, but then, it’s just pancakes, plain except for a goopy sort of sauce that’s hopefully syrup. Jim says, “Thank you,” and the waiter doesn’t respond or even acknowledge him.

Pretty much starving, Jim stabs a fork into the top pancake and starts munching away at it. The sauce is honey, and it’s a bit too saccharine, but he’ll take it. Bones rolls his eyes at Jim and eats slightly less sloppily. Spock cuts his pieces into neat, geometric squares, and Jim tries not to stare when he puts each slice in his mouth, bowed lips closing up around his fork, tongue licking up the excess honey. Jim’s fairly certain Spock notices these moments where he shouldn’t look but does, but all he can do is keep fighting them. He’s drawn to Spock beyond the explicable.

Bones doesn’t seem to have the same problem. He’s glaring down at his pancakes, grumbling, “These are awful.” But he still gets mad when Jim playfully tries to steal one.

Jim finishes his plate first. Spock has one left he’s still cutting, and he pushes his plate forward, offering, “You may have the last one if you wish.”

“Thanks, but don’t be stupid,” Jim says. Subconsciously, he’s grinning at the offer. He pushes the plate back. “You look like you need it more than I do.”

“Yet you appear to have a greater appetite.”

“Don’t let him overeat,” Bones adds. “He’s enough of a pain in the ass without medical issues.”

Jim rolls his eyes, but he keeps smiling at Spock, and he says, “Just eat it.”

Spock raises an eyebrow, but sets in on his last pancake. Jim starts crudely licking his plate clean because he’s _that hungry_ when Bones swears, “Shit.”

Jim looks up and where Bones is looking. The monitor above the bar is a news program now, and they’re talking about a kidnapping. No one else in the bar seems to be paying attention, but that could change. Especially if they put up a picture of Spock. The hat won’t hide his whole face.

Spock stops eating abruptly. Bones ushers them out of the booth, and he leaves a wad of cash on the table—they don’t take credits on Tarsus IV, not in little diners, anyway. As they’re walking out the door, the barman’s looking at the monitor, and the newsman’s describing Spock and Jim, the nameless boy who took him.

As soon as they’re outside, they’re running for the car.

* * *

They pass a total of two cars all day. They keep driving even when it’s dark, until it’s just unbearable and there’s no way to see. They’ve hit a stretch where there’re no buildings in either direction for as far as they can see, and Bones pulls over. Then they decide that’s not safe, and they drive far enough out into the dessert that roadside scanners won’t be able to pick them up, and they park behind a large enough rock to shield the car. It gets cold at night, but they’ve got a travel blanket in the front.

Bones lets them have it and settles for coats. He claims the front seat, lounging out across it, feet on the side of the car and in the air.

Jim says, “You can have the back, and I’ll sleep on the ground.”

But Spock says, “That would be unwise; if you damage your back you will be unable to drive tomorrow. There is no reason for us to not both sleep in the backseat.” He’s taken the toque off.

There’s every reason. But that’s an open invitation that Jim can’t refuse, and he nods. He doesn’t want to stick his feet in Spock’s face, so that just leaves lying together. There’s a minute of just them squirming under the blanket, trying to both fit on the seat. There’s not enough room on the floor, and there’s a bump in the middle anyway. Jim suggests, “I could lie on my back, and you could lie on top of me.”

“That would make it difficult for you to breathe.”

Jim shrugs. “You’re probably not that heavy, and I’m strong.”

Spock gets on his side anyway, and it forces Jim to do the same. Jim’s got his back to the seats, Spock facing the driver’s side. They’re pressed so closely together than Jim doesn’t have anywhere to put his arms, and Spock’s body heat is worth more than the blanket. Spock was shivering before but seems to subside now that Jim’s beside him—Jim doesn’t know what temperature Vulcans prefer. Spock reaches behind himself and grabs Jim’s wrist, draping it over his waist. Spooning. Maybe they do prefer it hotter.

Jim tightens it when he shouldn’t, drawing Spock into him. Spock doesn’t protest. Jim can feel Spock’s taut ass pressing into his crotch, and he knows this is going to be torture. At least the thought of abuse keeps it down.

“Do you think—”

Bones cuts him off with an annoyed, “Shut up,” from the front seat.

So Jim whispers, “Do you think you’ll be okay? I mean, emotionally...”

“I am half Vulcan,” Spock says.

Jim whispers, “Half?” He thought Spock was full, and that makes it even worse, somehow. Those people—his foster parents—were human. They had no humanity.

“I am not emotional.” It’s so blunt that Jim doesn’t have any room to protest. It’s true that Spock’s been very closed-off this whole time, but Jim can’t believe that that means he’s _okay_.

But Jim knows it’s not his place to decide that, even if that makes him sad. He squeezes Spock again, something of a hug, in an attempt to be comforting. Spock doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t say anything, either. Jim’s got his face to the side so it won’t be completely buried in Spock’s hair. Spock smells a bit spicy and a little musky. They all do. Spock looks cute in Jim’s clothes, and he fits _perfectly_ in Jim’s arms. Their legs are slightly intertwined in an attempt to fit. Between Spock and the blanket, Jim isn’t cold.

He’s almost asleep when he feels a warm hand slide over his, holding on.


	3. Gone

It’s still dark outside when Jim wakes up, but it’s a little less so. The stars are fading; the sun will be up soon. Bones is snoring quietly in the front seat. 

Spock’s turned around in the night, and he’s curled up to Jim, forehead pressing warm against his, black bangs mixing with his blond ones. Spock’s got his arms curled up between their chests, and Jim’s still got one hand draped over Spock’s waist. The blanket’s up to their shoulders. 

Jim has an awful cramp in his neck, but he wouldn’t move for the world right now. He can feel Spock’s breath on his cheek, the tip of Spock’s nose almost touching his, and a premium view of those exotic, pointed ears. For a minute, Jim just stares at them. 

Then he realizes, belatedly and sleepily, that he’s hard as a rock. His cheeks are red in seconds. His crotch is pressed firmly into Spock’s, one leg between Spock’s thighs and another hooked over Spock’s leg, so their bodies are trapped together. He’s too close all over, but the backseat’s small and there’s nowhere to go. 

Humiliating. Even worse, he doesn’t want to upset Spock. And for someone who’s been through what Spock has, waking up to this would probably be very upsetting. Jim desperately tries to think of un-sexy things, but it’s incredibly difficult with the perfect man in his arms, curled up to him and sleeping so peacefully, touching all over and fitting right. It’s like they’re two pieces made to fit together. Jim closes his eyes. Looking at Spock’s pretty, sleeping face isn’t helping. 

When he opens them again, Spock’s are open too. Just halfway, lashes down. He’s looking right into Jim’s, and Jim, still blushing, whispers, “Good morning.”

Spock’s eyes flicker down. Jim knows he can feel it. Hating himself, Jim tries to mumble, “Um... shit, I’m sorry... it’s just morning wood; I must’ve had a wet dream, and you’re really gorgeous so...” Fuck, he just made it worse. He scrunches up his face, eyes shut, and he just repeats, “Sorry.”

“I was not sure if you were attracted to me,” Spock says. 

Mouth dry, Jim just shakes his head. “Sorry.”

Voice so quiet that Jim wouldn’t be able to hear it if he were a centimeter further, Spock whispers, “I keep expecting you to... to take me.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” Jim says it with all the conviction he can muster on his face. “I mean it. I’d never, ever force you. ...And I won’t let anyone else do that to you ever again, I swear.”

“That promise is not yours to make.”

“I don’t care. I know there’s going to be consequences for this, and I know I’m getting in over my head; you don’t need to tell me again, but I don’t _care_. I’m going to protect you.”

Spock still looks wary. But there’s a small part of him that maybe looks like he believes it. He doesn’t pull away. They have a few minutes of quiet, and Jim’s thumb lightly strokes Spock’s back, and he’s willing his hips to stay still. Spock nuzzles slightly into Jim and closes his eyes, catching a bit more sleep. 

Jim just watches him, until Bones sits up in the front seat with a giant yawn, stretching his arms over his head. Jim’s grateful the blankets cover him up, but even without the evidence of Jim’s inappropriate body, Bones takes one look at him and snickers, “You dog.”

Sticking out his tongue, Jim gives Bones the middle finger with the hand he isn’t using to hold onto Spock.

* * *

Driving is just as boring today as it was yesterday. They’re close to the shipyard though, and Bones is sure they’ll make it by sundown. Once, they hear sirens in the distance. Sirens are a stupid thing to have in a dessert. 

Bones swerves off the road immediately, speeding towards a different formation of rocks. They park behind it, shutting off the car completely so it hopefully won’t show up on sensors. Jim gets out of the car and peeks around the edge of the rock, looking for a car. 

A hovercruiser passes instead, blaring loud. Jim has no doubt who they’re looking for. He gets back in the car, where Spock is tight-lipped and Bones is sweating too much. He’s paranoid enough without real problems. Jim’s stomach growls, and Bones barks, “Not now.”

Spock suggests, “I could turn myself in and save the two of you from the authorities.”

Jim and Bones snap in unison, “No.”

* * *

They find another small convenience store, _finally_. Jim’s melting and desperately needs a shower. He’s sitting in the middle seat with his arm draped across both, which essentially means he has an arm around Spock. Jim asked where Spock wanted him to sit, and that’s what Spock said. Jim doesn’t know how to interpret that. Bones goes into the convenience store alone, ordering them to duck if anyone passes. But the roads are quiet and empty, and all the silence is starting to get to Jim. He misses the loud bars of Earth. 

Bones brings them water bottles and dried snacks, fruit for Spock and salty garbage for Jim—apparently all they had. Spock nods his thanks, and they eat in the backseat while Bones continues driving. 

Then they pull over to switch, and Bones grabs his snacks and walks to the back, ushering Spock out. “I wanna lie down.”

Spock doesn’t protest. He climbs out and walks to the passenger side, climbing in. Jim puts his arm back around Spock’s chair and grips the wheel. Even tired and sweaty, this feels right, the three of them.

An hour later, Bones sits back up and shouts over the wind that Spock can join him, but Spock stays in the front with Jim.

* * *

It feels like forever until they hit the shipyard. They’ve been on long road trips to boring places before, but they’ve never been _on the run_ before. Usually they can stop for food, or showers, or a nap whenever they want. Usually Jim goes to bars and hits on people and Bones gets to gripe at him for it. They’ve done nothing but drive. Once, a car passes them the other way, and Jim makes Spock duck out of view. 

The shipyard is a small little thing, barely roped off. They drive right up to where two shuttles are parked, and there’s a big countdown board with flashing numbers—forty-three minutes until the next one leaves. There’s a ‘guard’ in front: a Tellarite who looks borderline dead inside. But that probably comes with backend jobs on desolate planets. 

Every time Jim talks to a Tellarite, he gets into a fistfight. Bones understands them a little more, so he opts to secure their passage. He walks across the shipyard to talk to the Tellarite, while Jim and Spock stay with the car parked behind the second shuttle, closed up and off. They fit Spock with the toque again, and Jim tries to wipe the blood off Spock’s lips a bit more gently. He’s mostly unsuccessful, but he’s using the excuse. He tugs the toque down as far as it’ll go, until it’s covering the tips of Spock’s eyebrows. 

Spock lets him fuss with a half-blank, half-dejected look. 

Jim, feeling uneasy, says as firmly as he can, “It’ll be okay.” Because Spock looks like he needs to hear that. For a species that’s supposed to be even-tempered and logical, he seems jaded. But then, he has a right to be. 

He says, “Just because we leave this planet does not mean we will not have to face the consequences of our actions.”

“Once we’re on a proper Federation planet, they won’t be able to take you back to an abusive situation. Besides, we can get papers and prove you’re an adult. Then they won’t own you.”

“I mainly meant for you,” Spock corrects. When Jim tilts his head, Spock explains, “Even if you are not legally punished for your actions, should Tarsus IV alert Starfleet to your actions, it is unlikely they will accept your application.”

“I rescued someone in need. That’s got Starfleet all over it.”

“You violated what they consider their Prime Directive by interfering and disrespecting another world’s culture.”

Jim still doesn’t think he’ll get in trouble for it. But even if he does, it’s not like he would do anything else given the option. He doesn’t have any regrets. And when he’s a member of Starfleet, that’s the kind of officer he’ll be anyway. He’s not sure he can explain that to Spock, so he just says, “When I’m made a captain, you should be my first officer. Bones is already gonna be my chief medical officer.”

Spock doesn’t look like he believes that’ll ever happen. Jim’s being light hearted, but he does mean it. Spock doesn’t protest though, so that’s something. 

“Hey!” Bones appears around their end of the shuttle a few seconds after his voice, panting slightly from jogging. “I paid. He’s probably not even going to look at us when we get on, so we should be fine. There’re two other humans aboard, but it’s a big shuttle. We’ll sit in the back and they won’t see us.”

Jim nods. For the first time since this started, Spock says, “Thank you.” Bones’ head jerks back a bit in surprise, and Jim looks at him. There’s something in Spock’s eyes that’s softened, even if his expression’s the same. 

Bones grunts, “You’re welcome.” Then he walks around to the car, popping the trunk and taking out the suitcases. “I gave him the rental car place’s number; we can just leave it here.” He takes his suitcase and heads off while Jim gets his. 

Jim’s about to follow Bones back around the shuttle when Spock grabs his elbow, stopping him in his tracks. When he looks back, Spock’s lips are ever-so-slightly tilted up at the edges, like he’s trying to smile, but it’s been too many years and he doesn’t know how anymore. He says slowly and sincerely, “ _Thank you._ ” Looking as awkward as Jim feels, he leans in to peck Jim’s cheek. 

Then he walks around Jim to follow Bones, and Jim’s chest feels warm for the first time in days. Warmer than when he started. 

He knows this is just the start. 

He’s looking forward to the next adventure with the three of them, like it should be.


	4. Epilogue

The apartment is small, even smaller with Spock in it. He doesn’t take up much space. Jim offers Spock his bed, but Spock offers to sleep on the couch. Bones doesn’t care so long as he gets his bed the way it is. There isn’t really room for a third bed in the cramped back room, and Jim and Spock take to sharing one, curled up on either side of it. 

Spock learns quickly that ‘morning wood’ is a common occurrence but refuses to leave. Jim hopes his presence is some sort of comfort. Spock devours the console in the living room, reveling more in the free access to information than anything else. He uses it to study plants from other worlds, to investigate possible career choices, and to find the perfect pasta recipe. He makes it too bland, but Jim still appreciates the gesture. Bones will eat anything free, though he’ll also complain about anything. Spock winds up doing most of the cleaning. He wants to do something to earn the household credits, but he doesn’t know what or how. 

They all submit applications to Starfleet. None of them expect to get in. They’re sitting at the table one night, and Spock says quietly over his Plomeek soup, “In the event that my under-qualified application is not accepted, I will need to find new living quarters.”

“You don’t like living with us?” Bones grunts over his waffle before Jim can protest, so Jim’s just frowning. Bones is clearly offended; Jim’s just sad.

Spock says, “I have burdened you enough.”

“You’re not a burden,” Jim says firmly. “You clean our house and sometimes you make food, and we like you. You’re part of our family. You don’t have to go anywhere, unless you want to.” And he hesitates, but he puts his hand over Spock’s on the table. Spock glances subtly down at it, but Jim doesn’t move. The spark’s never faded. Jim tries to say with his eyes that he wants Spock to stay. 

Bones, often more eloquent than Jim, points out, “Lots of young people your age stay with roommates. It’s common on Earth.”

In his unreadable, expressionless way, Spock looks a little calmed. Jim keeps holding onto his hand. 

Maybe just to change the subject, Jim says, “We’re out of cheesies.”

“I strongly protest you buying that crap in the first place,” Bones grumbles, even though he eats as much of them as Jim does. “They’re a heart attack waiting to happen.”

Ignoring him, Jim turns to Spock to say, “Let’s go shopping tomorrow. We’ll get a shitton.”

Spock says levelly, “While I am not familiar with that measurement, the context of your sentence suggests it is an unhealthy amount, and I must also submit my protest.”

Jim bursts out into hysterics, like he does whenever Spock says something naively adorable. Bones snorts too, and Spock continues eating, used to their antics. The mood’s lighter, and Jim wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world.

* * *

“You should probably see someone,” Bones tells Spock more than once. “For the trauma. The Federation has psychiatrists and professionals to deal with stuff like that.” He doesn’t add ‘trust me, I’m a doctor,’ but Jim hears it in the air. They’re sitting on a bench in the park, because Spock doesn’t get enough sun. But they didn’t say that.

Jim said he wanted to go for a jog, and Bones only agreed so he could watch the women run by, though he hasn’t dated anyone since pseudo-adopting Spock. Spock’s faster than both of them, and they’re taking a break on the bench. Spock, predictably, says simply, “I do not require assistance.”

Bones just shrugs and gives up, because neither he nor Jim really know what to do about it, and sometimes arguing with Spock is like listening to Bones singing in the shower: unbearable. Jim takes a swig of the water bottle and passes it sideways, and Spock passes it to Bones. While Bones drinks, Jim points at the little ice cream shop across the way. 

“If we don’t make it into the fall semester, I’m going to get a job there.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Spock states, “An ice cream shop.”

“Yup.”

Bones pours a bit of the water over his collarbone, letting it splash down his front, soaking his shirt. Spock looks on with a confused expression, and Jim chuckles—it’s a ridiculously hot day. As Bones starts to wave his grey t-shirt up and down like a fan, he says, “You’d think someone with an ice heart would like that idea.” Jim laughs even louder. 

Jim expects the joke to go over Spock’s head, but Spock simply asks, “To which of us are you referring?”

Jim fills in, “His heart’s made of coal, not ice.” Because it’s a longstanding joke they’ve had since he-can’t-remember-when. He likes the sound of an ice cream shop, though. Or maybe that’s just because it’s so hot outside. 

Spock looks gorgeous in the summer sun, sweat beads from the run still all along the back of his neck. His hair’s slicked down flatter than usual. Jim wants to see him lick an ice cream cone. 

Jim sighs and leans his head back on the wooden bench. They’ve gotten Spock his own clothes. 

Somehow, he’s still wearing Jim’s shirt. 

He looks good in it. He always does.

* * *

The transmission they get is a shock to all of them. Spock is the first to get it, as he sits at the console most. He finds Jim in the bedroom, flipping through a porno on his PADD. Jim hides the PADD immediately, because it’s all images of Vulcans done up in skimpy outfits—the closest thing to naked Vulcans available. 

As gravely as usual, Spock announces, “We have a letter.”

And Jim’s heart sinks, because his first thought is fear of Tarsus authorities. 

But it isn’t that. 

It’s a letter from Starfleet Academy. 

All three of them got in. Bones comes home late from a new date with some woman he’ll probably never get a second date with, and his sore mood brightens considerably at the news. Jim says, “We should synthesize a cake to celebrate.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow, clearly not seeing the reason behind that. Bones corrects, “We should have some bourbon to celebrate.” And he disappears to the kitchenette. 

Waiting for him to come back, Jim rereads the letter over Spock’s shoulder. Then he asks quietly, “Are you excited?”

He expects Spock to say that Vulcans don’t get excited. But instead, Spock simply says, “Yes.”

Bones returns with three glasses, balanced precariously between his fingers. Spock doesn’t like to drink, and alcohol has little effect on him. For once, he doesn’t protest. He takes his glass and downs it alongside Jim, who finds it burns a little too much but otherwise enjoys the heady buzz, and Bones’ glass is empty in a second. He gets more, and Jim clasps Spock’s shoulder.

“This is the beginning.” He’s sure of it. “We’re gunna have a great future.”

Spock nods slowly, and his fingers reach up to squeeze Jim’s.

* * *

Everything until the fall semester starts is something of a blur. Jim knows it’s going to be hard work, of course, but he’s sure it’s going to be worth it. He’s mostly bristling with anticipation. Spock starts studying voraciously, and Jim joins in when he can. Bones is confident he’s already fine, and his preferred tone becomes trepidation—they’re really going to do it—he’s going to spend a bunch of time in space—and they’re probably going to use those transporters which he’s not-so-fondly nicknamed ‘deathtraps.’ 

Jim and Bones ramp up their partying. It’s going to come to an end soon, so the pair of them (admittedly, mostly Jim) hit bars as much as possible, drink as much as possible, dance as much as possible. 

But Jim doesn’t pick up just anyone like he used to. At first, he intends to. It was a huge chunk of his life before, and once he’s stuck studying, he’s not sure he’ll have time to anymore. 

But he just doesn’t ever see anyone he _wants_ , other than the one person he knows he shouldn’t ask for. He compares everyone that hits on him to Spock, and he turns them all down. He tries to never come home too drunk, because he doesn’t trust himself not to say something stupid. He always stops drinking towards the end of the night, or he delays going home, or he makes Bones promise to force him to sleep on the couch at home. 

One night, all of his fail-safes fall through, and he crawls into bed, completely smashed. 

He still knows he shouldn’t, but he’s groggy and doesn’t care, and he sidles up to Spock in the darkness, spooning tight along Spock’s back like they so often do. Spock says Vulcans are ill-equipped for the cold, and Jim’s body-heat helps. Spock’s impossibly warm, and they both sleep in their underwear. It’s dark out the window, and across from them, Bones is snoring. 

Jim’s sure Spock’s asleep, but really, he’s too drunk to tell. 

Jim nuzzles into the back of Spock’s neck. He breathes in the smell of Spock’s shampoo. He wraps his arms tight around Spock’s waist, holding Spock flush against him. Their legs get a little tangled, the blankets a mess atop them, and Jim’s hard _fast_.

His hips jerk into Spock’s ass once, even though he knows, he _knows_ he shouldn’t. He forces them still. Spock smells _so_ good. Jim has just enough of himself together to mumble, “I’m sorry. ‘M sorry.”

He falls asleep feeling sick, unsure of what about.

In the morning, his head’s pounding. The bed’s empty. Jim can’t remember much. 

Spock brings him water.

* * *

It occurs to Jim about a week before they go that Spock’s gone from never leaving one room to having free run of a city, out to stores and sometimes restaurants and sometimes other places. Spock deals with other people on a cursory level, but he’s mostly buried in Jim and Bones. He rarely leaves home without at least one of them. When they’re out, he stays home. 

When he’s at the Academy, all of that will change.

He’ll be in classes full of other people and have to deal with authority again. It’ll be trustworthy authority, but does Spock know that? Can Spock trust that? They’ll be on different schedules. They’ll have to work hard. 

Jim knows Spock will work hard. Jim knows Spock will adjust and thrive with the schedules and structure. He doesn’t know if Spock will be able to handle the _people_ , and he asks once, when it’s just the two of them in the living room, under the blankets and with the scary movie paused, “Are you scared?” He whispers it, because Bones is sleeping in the other room. 

He knows that Spock wouldn’t admit to that emotion. When Spock simply looks at him, he clarifies, “Not of the movie. Of going to the Academy. Everything’ll be different. There’ll be people everywhere, and...” And he trails off. This was supposed to be about Spock, but he finds himself whispering anyway, “I’ll miss you.”

Spock’s eyebrows knit together. “Will you leave me?”

“I’ll never leave you.” Jim’s surprised, but he doesn’t even hesitate. “But we’ll be in different classes, and we won’t be together all the time. At least, not until I get my ship and make sure we have the same shifts, anyway.” Because he’s still on about that. “But... it’ll be a big change for you.”

For a moment, Spock seems to consider this. Then he announces, “Change has been good to me. I am looking forward to educating myself and improving, so that I will never be...”

“Helpless?” Jim provides. Spock nods. Jim knows he felt like that before, small and vulnerable. 

“And I have you.”

It’s Jim’s turns to raise his eyebrows. 

Spock explains, “I know that if I should have the need, I can come to you.”

“You can.” Jim nods. “Bones too. We all have each other.” And he grins, because somehow, Spock’s gotten braver than him. “Yeah, it’s not so bad when you look at it like that.”

There’s a moment of pause where they wait for each other, Jim having things to say but not knowing how to say them. Eventually, Spock gives up on him and returns the movie to playing. It’s less scary than life is, but Jim curls up close to Spock anyway, infinitely pleased when Spock leans his head on Jim’s.

* * *

They move into their dorm room the day before classes. If they could all three stay together, that would be Jim’s first choice. But the rooms are built for two people, and as much as Bones complains, he’s the odd man out. 

Then he sees his roommate, a hot blonde who wants to be a science officer in the weapons field, and his tone abruptly changes. As Jim and Spock help him move boxes, they’re forced to endure endless ridiculousness, like Bones offering to help her move her mattress with his ‘incredibly talented hands.’ She grins at him but doesn’t say anything else one way or the other.

Then he finds out she’s an admiral’s daughter, and his paranoia kicks in, and he abruptly becomes totally appropriate again. As soon as she leaves the room, he whines, “I’m going to be kicked out on my first day.”

“Not if you do not do anything untoward,” Spock suggests as he helps fold clothes into the drawers in Bones’ half of the room. The bedroom has a thin partition in the middle that Jim thinks might only be in the co-ed dorms. 

But Bones gestures to the close proximity of the beds despite the divider, grumbling, “Look at this! Have you seen her ass? I’m going to hell.”

“You were already going to hell,” Jim insists. “Now stop worrying about women and help us unpack so we can move onto our room.”

He does. It still takes them another hour, and by then it’s dark outside, but they leave the dorms so he can help with their room. It’s got the same configuration, without the bedroom divider. They only have slightly more stuff, despite being two people, because Spock doesn’t have many possessions. He has a few things Bones and Jim have given him, like a miniature medkit and a Vulcan lute. Everything he has fits into the set of drawers by his bed. The two beds are separated only by a small nightstand. Jim fills up all of his drawers and has to toss a bunch of stuff on top and shove some boxes under his bed. There’s no other storage space. The ‘living room’ is tiny and cramped with a kitchenette, a couch, a coffee table, a chair, and a miniature bathroom. 

Nevertheless, it’s going to be home. And it’s got Spock in it. It feels a bit larger once all the boxes are gone. It feels even smaller when Bones leaves, after general hand shaking and congratulations all around. They’re all in different programs, and it’ll be harder to see each other, but they’ll always do what they can. Jim’s sure of that. 

And Jim’s immensely grateful that he still gets to live with Spock. They’ve spent so much time together. Since the first night they met, they’ve never been apart for more than twenty-four hours. 

Jim doesn’t want that to change. 

They make a small snack—some Vulcan “finger” food from the Synthesizer that looks like potato slices but tastes more like unseasoned rice. They sit on the couch to eat, side-by-side, legs touching. Jim’s in jeans and a t-shirt, and he soaks in Spock in a grey sweater, because he gets the distinct impression that Spock will be dressing more formal from now on. Spock finishes his food first, and he puts his plate and chopsticks down on the coffee table. Apparently, Vulcans don’t eat with their hands, no matter how much sense it makes. 

Spock waits, quiet, while Jim finishes. Then Jim licks his fingers off and puts his plate on the table. He stretches his arms over his head, ready to retire, even though the adrenaline’s probably going to keep him up all night. He’s going to need to be rested for tomorrow. 

Before he can get up, Spock says, “Thank you.”

Jim looks sideways, caught off guard and a little surprised.

“Both for rescuing me and for continuing to take care of me,” Spock elaborates. “You have given me a future, where I never thought I would have one. I do not believe I have ever adequately thanked you or Leonard for the incredible impact you have had on my life.”

Jim’s... momentarily overwhelmed. He flushes slightly, the memory still on his cheek of Spock’s thanks, so many months ago. He still has nightmares about that small, scared, bruised Vulcan he first saw, and some of those memories make him sick, and others after it he looks back on fondly. He says sincerely, “You’ve had a wonderful impact on me too. I mean it. I’m grateful every day that I have you in my life.”

Spock lifts his eyebrow, like he doesn’t quite believe it. But Jim keeps the raw honesty on his face. It might’ve been overkill, he might’ve said too much, but he meant it. He steals small glances at Spock all the time. He purposely exchanges little touches all the time. He comes to Spock when he’s sad, when he’s happy, when he’s angry, whenever he needs to, and even though Spock’s awkward with emotions, he’s always _there_ for Jim. Jim knows he’s been there for Spock too while Spock’s been adjusting, even if his recovery’s never been like a human’s would. It’s been a long process, and it hasn’t always been easy. 

But Jim wouldn’t trade the outcome for anything. Spock’s silent again. Eventually, he says, too quietly, “I have not done anything for you.”

“You’re the most important thing to me.” Spock’s done everything for him, but he can’t think of anything specific right now, and it seems easier just to say, “You have no idea how much you mean to me.”

And then he feels awkward and a bit embarrassed, and he knows his cheeks are pink. He doesn’t know if Spock knows what a human sounds like when they’re desperately in love, but Jim knows. And that’s him. 

He’s been that way for a long, long time. 

He knows Spock’s past. He doesn’t want to make Spock uncomfortable. He’s not perfect, but he always tries. He doesn’t want to abuse the trust and gratitude Spock’s give him. He mumbles into the static air, “We should go to bed.” And he forces out a yawn, stretching his arms again. 

For a moment, it looks like Spock is going to say something. His lips even part, but then they close. He nods. 

The two of them wander back to the bedroom, staring at their separate beds. Jim can’t help but wonder if Spock’s cold at night in the Earth atmosphere, or if he misses Jim’s embrace as much as Jim misses his. They’ve seen each other strip before, and they both set to it, Jim, as always, willing himself not to look. They strip down to boxers, and they climb into their respective blankets. 

Jim says first, “Computer, lights off.” They don’t have a window in their dorm, so the room’s instantly pitch black. Jim stretches out his arms. The bed feels distinctly narrow. 

It’s strange to sleep alone again. He spent the vast majority of his life sleeping alone, but it still feels wrong. He can still hear Spock breathing if he strains. He can still _feel_ Spock in the room. But it feels like Spock’s an eternity away, and Jim _can’t stand that._

A sense of loss poisons his Starfleet excitement, and he doesn’t fall asleep for a long, long time.

* * *

One week in, Jim gets off class early. Or at least, earlier than Spock. It’s still dark out. Classes have been...

Terrifying. And exhilarating. It’s a trip and a half. 

But he misses Spock and Bones a lot, and he knows Spock’s still in class. Spock’s in a science program. Bones is probably busy, but Jim whips out his personal communicator anyway, waiting for an answer while he fishes through their limited cupboard space. 

As soon as Bones answers, Jim asks, _“Does Spock like macaroni?”  
_

Jim snorts. He figured Bones wouldn’t know, but there didn’t seem to be any harm in asking. Other than Bones’ usual bile, of course. Maybe he just needed an excuse to hear Bones’ voice. “How’re the classes going?”

_“Oh, fine, if you don’t mind being exposed to a lethal strain of Rigelian flu, that is.”_

Jim naturally ignores the sarcasm. There’s no point telling Bones that Starfleet’s not going to poison its cadets. “How’s Carol?”

There’s indistinct grumbling on the other end. Jim’s not quite sure what that means, but it doesn’t matter. He just laughs to fill the gap, and he pulls a pot out of the cupboard, putting it on the single-burner miniature stove and starting to boil water. He says aloud for no particular reason, “I bet if I make it without cheese, he’ll like it better.”

There’s more muttering in the background on Bones’ end, and Jim asks, “What was that?”

Bones grumbles, _“Carol says she used to put ketchup on macaroni.”_

“You’re sharing my conversation? You dog.” But it doesn’t really matter. Jim doesn’t have anything to say; he just misses Bones. He’s not sure how loud the reception is on the other end, so he says louder than usual, “Hey, do you remember that time two summers ago when we went camping, but there was only one sleeping bag, so we just shared and our wieners—”

He’s cut off by a burst of laughter on the other end and Bones snarling, _“No I don’t damn well remember you goddamn infant!”_

It’s probably good Jim got cut off. It’s not a real story, and he’s not exactly sure where he was going with it, but teasing Bones is always worth it. Jim absently rereads the instructions on the back of the macaroni box while pouring it into the pot, head tilting accordingly. Evidently not amused, Bones finally gets it together enough to say, _“Look, we’re studying over here. Did you just call to ask what to feed Spock, or did you actually have something to say?”_

In the background, Jim can hear the faint murmur of Carol saying, _“Maybe he just likes your pretty voice.”_

So Jim, grinning broadly, repeats, “Yeah, I just like your pretty voice.”

 _“I’m surrounded by idiots.”_ And the communicator clicks off on his end. 

Jim calls back immediately and asks right off the bat, “Wanna catch a drink on Saturday?”

_“If I ever finish this essay.”_

“Thanks, see you then.” And this time Jim hangs up, tossing the communicator back onto the table. He leans against the counter, waiting for the pasta to cook. He’s never done it without the cheese before, but he’s pretty sure Spock will like it better that way. The box had enough for two. He keeps hoping the door will open, but it doesn’t. 

When it’s done, Jim leaves half in the pot. He adds the powdered cheese to his bowl, and it’s sort of strange like that. It’s better when it’s creamy and melted in. But it’s edible now, and he’s never been particularly picky. He eats on the couch. 

Because Spock’s not around, he puts his feet on the coffee table while he does it. He considers turning on the viewscreen across the room and watching something, but then he figures his brain’s still too fried from class to intake anymore flashing images. He just enjoys his macaroni in peace, feeling somehow both relaxed and a little lonely. 

The smart thing to do, obviously, would be to go to bed early and catch up on the sleep classes and homework in general have been sucking away from him. But he keeps hoping if he stays up a little longer, he’ll get a little time with Spock before they’re inevitably sucked apart again. 

By the time it hits midnight, he knows he should probably give up. Midnight used to be nothing. But then, he used to be able to sleep in. 

He considers putting the pot in front of the door so Spock will see it. But then, Spock probably would protest food being on the floor. So Jim gets a PADD and leaves a note on it, putting that in front of the door instead. Jim’s sure Spock’s natural cleaning instincts will cause him to inspect anything in his path. 

Jim strips down to boxers and climbs into his bed, facing Spock’s and the doorway. He’s tired, but he doesn’t want to sleep. He tells the computer, “Lights, ten percent.” That way, Spock will be able to see at least a little when he gets home. He can set it to lighter—Jim’ll be asleep anyway. But he never does. Jim left the PADD on—the screen should be bright through the darkness. 

For a few minutes, Jim just settles into the bed. Rolls around, gets comfortable. Breathes in. He runs over some of his lessons, some of the new people he met, some information he’s sure will be on next Thursday’s tactics test. He thinks of the last time he and Bones played golf—that’s something he thinks Spock might enjoy.

Then he daydreams groggily about Spock, hazy memories and how things might’ve been different. He tires not to let his imagination stray too far. His consciousness comes and goes, ebbing slowly away. 

He’s almost asleep when he hears the door of the other room open, and he’s too out-of-it to move. His eyes stay closed, one arm draped over the side of the bed, legs apart, blankets all around him. He’s in that sort of in-between state where he can’t quite tell what’s real and what he’s dreaming. 

He thinks he hears something mechanical, like buttons pressing. The beeping of a PADD. There’s quiet, and then some footsteps. A soft clatter. A drawer opens, closes. More footsteps. Jim smiles sleepily; Spock found the macaroni. He hopes Spock likes it. He’s come home to dinner Spock left for him too often. Once, there was even a box of chocolates, and...

Jim exhales his particularly heavy inhale through his nose, semi-aware that he’s borderline snoring. He didn’t hear the other footsteps, maybe because he was busy yawning. But fabric’s rustling. Jim’s tempted to open one eye and catch Spock stripping, but he’s too tired to bother. 

More soft footsteps. 

The bed dips down on the other side. Jim’s forehead furrows. Spock’s deep voice whispers, “Lights, zero percent.” The blankets shift. 

Jim has to force himself awake, or as awake as possible, and it’s made easier when a pair of strong arms wrap around him. He wants to snuggle into them, but that means...

Spock’s bare chest is suddenly against his back, solid and soft and radiating heat. He can feel Spock’s thighs against the back of his knees, feel Spock’s toes a little cold against his ankles. Spock adjusts a bit, and Jim...

Jim rolls over in Spock’s arms, opening his eyes through the darkness. He can’t see anything, but he knows where Spock is. He can feel Spock’s breath ghost across his lips. He whispers, “Lights, five percent,” because he needs to know this is real. 

The pale glow trickles down over the side of Spock’s face, catching in his dark eyes. There’s a faint shine across Spock’s sleek hair. Spock’s on his side, the shoulder in the air broad and firm, draped over Jim’s body. It’s hard to see anything. Jim’s vision’s adjusting. He can smell Spock all around him, feel Spock beneath the covers. 

He mumbles quietly, so as not to break the spell, “What are you doing?”

Spock breathes out. He sounds like he did back then, like that time the two of them were in the backseat, whispering things both were afraid to say. Now it’s just the two of them in the whole dorm, in the safety of the Federation, but it still feels just like it did, isolated and sacred. Jim... doesn’t know what he’s expecting. He knows what he _wants_. Spock whispers, “I... have spent a considerable amount of time thinking of this. Of us.” And he waits for Jim to say something, but Jim doesn’t. 

Jim’s fixated on the outcome. He’s staring first at Spock’s bow lips, then Spock’s eyes. Spock’s sharp cheekbones. The curve of Spock’s jaw. He saw stubble on it the other day, walked in when Spock was shaving. He wants to reach out and cup Spock’s face, tell him it’s alright. 

Spock continues, “I did not want to like you simply because you rescued me, or simply because you are a very handsome individual, or simply because you are so good to me. ...But I have come to the conclusion that we are connected beyond circumstance. I have met many others now, including members of the Vulcan race, and what I feel when I am with you is exclusively with you. It is something I wish to hold onto, if you will have me.”

“If I’ll have you?” Jim repeats dully.

He tries to soak that all in. He knew Spock liked him in some capacity. They spend so much time together. He can feel it. Of course he knows they have a connection. But he didn’t know Spock thought he was ‘very handsome.’ He’s a little overwhelmed. Jim has to ask, “You... you know I want you, right...?” Because he never said it, but Spock’s intelligent, and somehow, they’re not exactly subtle. He thought maybe they were. Now he’s not so sure. 

“I had an idea. ...Leonard was also kind enough to inform me of certain human... ‘customs’... you have been displaying.”

Jim grins; Bones and ‘kind’ don’t often get used in the same sentence. He’s almost irritated at Bones for outing him, but then, it got Spock in his bed again, so he can’t be too mad. He nods. Murmuring, “Yeah, but... with your past and everything... I didn’t want to scare you away...”

He’s not sure what he expects. Spock says, “Perhaps if we were to... go slowly.”

“Of course.” Jim nods again, probably too fast and enthusiastic for this. “Anything you want. Anything you need.”

“You have spent entirely too long concerned with my needs. I would like to focus more on what _you_ need.”

Jim’s smile is splitting his face. “You as a boyfriend would be nice. I mean, we don’t need to say that exactly, but maybe if we work towards—”

“I am your boyfriend,” Spock says bluntly. Jim almost laughs. He’s feeling suddenly ridiculous, light and giddy. Spock must’ve really liked that macaroni.

“I’m yours too,” Jim adds. Spock nods. 

And Spock hesitates. 

He parts his lips slightly, eyes flickering down. He leans forward, only a few centimeters, but it’s enough to press his mouth lightly into Jim’s.

It starts small, soft. It leaks through Jim’s body like electricity, until he’s all awake, and he inhales as he shifts forward, arching into Spock’s body. He reaches up to Spock’s face, just like he wanted to, fingers threading in Spock’s hair, the other hand shifting under Spock’s side. He doesn’t open his mouth, doesn’t use tongue. Even though he wants to. He lets Spock pull back, their foreheads together and their noses brushing, side-by-side. 

Jim waits. He needs more confirmation that this is okay, that this is what Spock wants. He’s sure Spock knows that. Spock licks his lips. 

Spock goes again, tilting and pressing harder. Jim can’t hold back his sigh. He pushes his tongue out, and Spock’s meets him halfway. They touch in the middle, wet and a little sloppy. It takes a few tries to find the right rhythm. Maybe they’re both too excited, or both still unsure, or both to consumed by the change in... everything... to function. Then they’re opening and closing, tilting, pressing into one another, moaning. Jim’s crotch is tented. This isn’t about that, but it’s happened. His cock’s straining against his boxers, and he can feel the outline of Spock’s dick through the two sets of fabric. He can feel Spock’s hard abs against his, feel Spock’s smooth thighs around his. They’re grinding into one another, and Jim tries to be careful, tries to be gentle. Their nipples brush when they tilt just right, hips rolling. Spock’s fingers are on his shoulder blades. Everything’s in their fingers, in their lips. It’s all about the place where their mouths connect and mesh into one. It’s too hot in their room. 

Jim’s unwilling to move. He’s light-headed. Spock feels just _right_ in his arms, just like always. He’s wanted to do this for _so long_... 

He pulls apart, still touching, Spock’s breath still ghosting over his chin. He mumbles, “We should push the beds together.”

He thinks Spock nods, but it’s hard to tell, because Spock’s nuzzling into him, adjusting again. The blankets slip a little off Spock’s shoulder, and Jim pulls them back up, tucking them in. As much as he’d like to take Spock now, it wouldn’t exactly be going slowly, so contents himself with just _having_ Spock. For now, that’s enough. 

They kiss. A lot. Like they’re making up for all the lost time, Spock with surprisingly as much fervor as Jim. They touch everywhere they can, and Jim’s sleepy and tired and even headier with the glow in the room. His body works itself out, not coming, just simmering down to a low boil, steady and comfortable. Being tangled together is so much _better_ than sleeping alone. The bed’s so narrow that they have to keep close, completely worth it. 

There’s a wordless understanding that they have to sleep. The kisses die out, and then Spock resettles, head pillowed on Jim’s arm. Jim tries to close his eyes, but ends up leaning forward to kiss Spock again. Then Jim’s trying to sleep, and Spock runs two sensual fingers up his throat: a Vulcan caress. Every time Jim’s about to drift off, he finds something new about Spock to marvel in, and he does, afraid that when he wakes up, he’ll find out it was all a dream.

But eventually they fall asleep against one another, out for a better adventure.


End file.
